


Thank You

by asfragileasaword



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: One Shot, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asfragileasaword/pseuds/asfragileasaword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's reaction to the news about Sherlock's death. He doesn't take it very well. Lestrade blames himself for driving Sherlock to suicide, and the guilt crushes him. He never even got a chance to apologize to Sherlock for everything he did - and didn't do. One-shot. Includes Sally and Anderson getting their just desserts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think at the end - did you like it? Too sad? Not sad enough? Too slow? Not slow enough? I hope you enjoy it!

He had been in his office when he heard.

The Yard was buzzing with a flurry of activity. Officers were running every which way, mounds of paperwork were piling up, and everyone had somewhere to be. Despite the traumatic event with Sherlock the night before, it was a normal day –  unbelievably busy, but normal. It was like this every day. The fact that they were trying to track down both the genius detective and his blogger with whom they so often worked with made no difference.

Well, except to Lestrade. 

But Lestrade didn’t really count, in the grand scheme of it all.

The Chief Superintendent had let him keep his job. Barely. Lestrade was pretty sure that the man just didn’t want to have to deal with him at the moment. That was alright with him. But he had left Lestrade with a warning:

_Don’t you dare bloody mess up, Lestrade. I hear that you push the boundaries at all, and I will personally ensure that you never you step one foot inside the Yard again. Understood?_

Understood.

So, basically his position was hanging by a thread. He was grateful, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to keep himself in check. As soon as he found those two idiots, he was going to let them have it – and then collapse to his knees and beg their forgiveness.

He had been a fool, and he knew it. There was no way he’d ever bring them in. He’d just hold out and pray that they gave him another chance.

If he had ever regretted anything, it was doubting Sherlock even for a second. After everything Sherlock had done for him and his career – albeit rather rudely and snappishly – Lestrade owed him his trust, at the very least. Besides, a part of him loved the kid – not that he’d ever admit that to anyone else.

He doubted he’d ever forget the day he met Sherlock. He hadn’t been Detective Inspector yet; he probably never would have gotten to that point in his job if not for Sherlock, really. He was just another officer. He’d taken the kid in from the streets – he still wasn’t sure why he had. He’d just seen a lanky young man, barely out of his teenage years, on the side of the road in the rain, looking like a drowned cat. He was just small and miserable and clearly high as a kite, and Lestrade was lonely. So why not give the kid a place to sleep?

The decision, although he didn’t know it at the time, would completely change his life. They had stumbled into Lestrade’s empty flat – the missus had been out for the weekend doing God knows what – and five minutes in, with only glancing at the files on a particularly gruesome and tricky case spread haphazardly across the table, Sherlock had given Lestrade the information he needed to catch the culprit. While standing dead on his feet. With his body pumping with drugs. Without having been at the crime-scene.

Lestrade had never been more amazed in his life.

Soon after that, he started pulling Sherlock in on all kinds of cases, letting him have a looser leash each time he came to help. Every time Sherlock came to work at the Yard, he’d end up going home with Lestrade and spending the night on the sofa, either sleeping or typing away on Lestrade’s laptop. Slowly, Lestrade started getting the kid off the drugs. It didn’t seem that Sherlock needed them, anyway – not when he had something challenging and exhilarating to focus on.

As time wore on, Sherlock came over to his home less and to the station more, but Lestrade still had a soft place in his heart for him, blunt and insulting as he was. He’d never forget the one night, six months into their acquaintanceship, when he heard those two words pass from Sherlock’s lips as he drifted off to sleep on the couch.

_Thank you._

It was the only time Lestrade had ever heard Sherlock say the phrase with sincerity. It struck him somehow, and after that, he was fairly certain that he’d follow Sherlock anywhere. He started to care about him, almost in a fatherly-like way, and no matter how biting the idiot became, he dealt with him. Partly because he was brilliant and he needed him, but mostly because he never lost sight of those two words.

 _Thank you_.

He wondered why those two words had fled his mind when Anderson and Donovan had brought their concerns to him about the detective. He doubted that he’d ever forgive himself for that one lapse in memory; he only hoped that Sherlock could.

That was why, the morning after the almost-arrest, Lestrade was sitting in his desk, directing traffic as it passed him, all officers rushing about to find Sherlock and John. They were doing it to catch alleged criminals; Lestrade was doing it in the hopes that, if he found them, he could apologize.

That was all he had to keep him going – that hope that, once found, they would not condemn him.

Because this situation was all his fault. He had to fix it.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

So yeah, he’d been in his office when he heard. He was sending people out right and left, all to search for Sherlock.

He led them to believe it was to get back on the Chief’s good side.

He knew that no one really bought that.

So, when a twitchy young officer came into his office, he hardly noticed. The room was already full. What was one more person?

He also barely noticed when said man tapped his shoulder. He had a lot of other things to focus on, and one more person vying for his attention was of no concern.

“U-um…D.I. Lestrade? S-sir?“

Lestrade looked up sharply, annoyed with the distraction. He didn’t even really care that the guy was shaking and a little too pale to be considered healthy. Not his issue. Not right now. “What?” he demanded.

“Um…I think you should c-come with me, s-sir.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “And why should I do that?” he asked. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“ _Please, sir_.”

Lestrade huffed. “Fine then,” he said. “But make it fast, alright?” He heaved himself out of his chair and maneuvered around the others in the room, following the young man out of the room and trailing him to a cluster of desks.

“Alright, what is it, officer? I really don’t have time with this.”

The kid nodded. “Yes sir,” he said earnestly. He kind of reminded Lestrade of a younger, nicer Sherlock – sort of a more timid version of the genius that had slept on his sofa years ago. “It’s just that…well, we got a call, and…sir, I thought it best to alert you immediately.”

Lestrade leaned onto the nearest desk and ran a hand through his hair. “What did this call say, then?”

The younger man gulped. “Um, we’ve found him, s-sir,” he said faintly. “We’ve found Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade straightened, as though shot with a jolt of electricity. “What?” he demanded. “Why did you take so long to say so? Where the hell is he?”

The smaller man was shaking. He really didn’t look well, Lestrade noticed absently. When this whole thing was worked out, he’s make sure the kid got a holiday or something.

“W-well, sir…” he started, “We haven’t exactly found him in the condition we were, um, hoping for. I really don’t know how to say this…um…”

“Spit it out!” Lestrade snapped. He had to find them as soon as possible. He didn’t have time to stand here and listen to this simpleton stutter, no matter how run-down he looked.

“He was reported to be seen outside St. Bart’s…” The kid trailed off.

“Alright, great! Thank you, but I’ve got to get there _now._ ” Lestrade turned and prepared to sprint to the car.

“Sir!”

Lestrade turned. He did _not_ have time for this. “What is it?”

The kid fidgeted, his head down. “I…” When he looked up, his eyes had _tears_ in them.

_What the hell?_

“Sir, Mr. Holmes…” He gulped. “Mr. Holmes jumped off the roof of the hospital ten minutes ago. He…he didn’t survive.”

_No._

“What kind of sick joke – “ Lestrade’s voice caught. He swallowed. “ – What kind of disgusting, twisted person would make a joke about something like that?”

“S-sir, it’s, um…it’s not a jo – “

“How _dare you?_ ” Lestrade shouted. He had gotten much closer to the young man’s face and could see each pockmark there, which, for some odd reason, only made him angrier. “How dare you waste my time like this? Now, have you found him, or have you not?”

The kid seemed to get smaller under Lestrade’s eye. “W-we have f-found him, sir,” he said weakly. “He c-committed suicide off of St. Bart’s r-rooft-top.”

 _“No he didn’t!”_ Lestrade roared.

He was sure that they had attracted the attention of several people by now. He didn’t care.

“Tell – me – where – Sherlock – is,” he gritted out.

“At St. Bart’s!” the officer insisted. “Sir, I’m sorry, I really am, but – “

“No,” Lestrade interrupted. “No.” He paused, breathing deeply. “I’m – I’m going to go to the hospital. You – you will not do anything. Don’t tell anyone _anything,_ understand?”

The timid man had the decency to look frightened. “Y-yes sir.”

“Good.” And with that, Lestrade swept out of the room.

He refused to believe that Sherlock was dead.

It just wasn’t possible.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

When he strode into the morgue, it was empty of any living body, save for Molly Hooper. She jumped when the doors banged into the walls and looked up at Lestrade. Her nose was red and her eyes were watering.

“Oh!” she said shakily. “Hello, Detective In – “

“Is he here?” he asked, cutting her off. “Is it true?” He could hardly finish the sentence without his voice quavering. The next time he spoke, his words shook and he had to choke it out. “Please – please God, don’t let it be true.”

“Oh, Greg…” she said. Her face said everything that she wouldn’t.

And he couldn’t take it.

“Oh…Oh, _God_ …”

His legs couldn’t support him anymore, and he wasn’t sure why. All he knew was that Sherlock was _gone_ and it was sudden and unexpected and…

And he hadn’t gotten to apologize for having a hand in ruining the detective’s career and reputation.

He hadn’t gotten to apologize for forgetting that _thank you._

He hadn’t gotten to apologize for abandoning him…his friend…

And now he was gone.

A sob ripped out of his throat, and if he wasn’t so completely devastated, he would have been ashamed. Molly quickly pushed a chair under him to stop him from sinking to the floor. “What have I done?” he whispered.

Sherlock was dead. He had committed suicide…

Because he was going to be convicted of kidnapping and of being a fraud.

Oh. Oh God.

 _What had he bloody_ done?

They were silent for a long while. After several minutes of staring blankly at the sterile white walls, he looked up at Molly. “Can I…” Did he really want this?

Yes. Yes, he did. He needed to see.

“Can I see the body, Molly?”

She gave him a look. He wasn’t really sure what it was – some kind of mix of regret and sadness and guilt. “Oh…Oh, no, I’m so sorry. It’s…We’re not allowing anyone to see the body.”

“But – but I’m with the law!”

She smiled a watery, tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry, Greg. It’s – it’s Mycroft’s rules.”

 _Mycroft_. Well, he very well couldn’t override that.

Speaking of Mycroft, there was someone else who should have been there.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Where’s John? Has anyone told him?”

At that, Molly heaved a breathy little sob. “N-no n-need,” she squeaked. “He s-saw th-the who-ole th-thing.” Tears poured from her eyes, making little wet trails down her face.

Lestrade felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. “ _He what?”_ he gasped.

She nodded, the tears flowing even more quickly. “Y-yes. Sh-sherlock called h-him before he j-jumped to say g-good-b-bye and J-john watched the wh-whole thing.”

“Oh my – where is he?”

“I-I sent him home,” she replied. “He w-wasn’t really fit-t t-to be here.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, nodding.

He didn’t say much else for a long time.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He got back to the Yard two hours later. Molly had let him stay in the morgue. He hadn’t spoken the rest of the time he had stayed there, and she didn’t ask him to. They just sat there silently until she quietly told him that she had to get back to work.

He was beyond the point of being grief-stricken to the point of muteness. He wanted to scream and cry and rip out his hair and curse and just let out _everything_. Anything to make himself forget that he was the reason Sherlock was dead. He had been the one to arrest him. He had been the one to doubt him. He had been the one to join the rest of the world against again.

_And he wanted to forget it._

But he couldn’t. And he didn’t think he ever would.

Sherlock had once said _thank you_ to him. Sherlock would never thank him again. Not just because he was dead – but because Lestrade had done nothing to earn his thanks. He deserved to be beaten to a pulp, at the very least. Forget kind, grateful words whispered from a moth-eaten sofa.

Lestrade was one of the reasons Sherlock was dead.

_Thank you._

For what, Sherlock?

For what?

So yes, he wanted to shout and yell and shriek and make so much sound that he could drown out his own conscience. He couldn’t stand this guilt and this sorrow much longer.

He knew exactly where he could do that. He hadn’t been the only one involved in Sherlock’s death.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He walked into the station after making sure his face was decent for public viewing. He had cried a bit more than he cared to admit today and didn’t want it to show.

He found the young officer who had told him about Sherlock’s death relatively quickly. He pulled him aside.

“Have you mentioned this to anyone?” he asked.

“No, sir,” the kid replied. “I kept silent, just like you asked.”

“Good,” Lestrade replied. “Good.” He left the trembling man and headed toward his office.

“Donovan, Anderson!” he called as he walked. “My office – _now_!” He heard them scrambling behind him.

When he walked into the room, he cleared it out immediately. There really wasn’t any need – the doors in the Yard didn’t really muffle much sound. He knew everyone was going to hear this.

And he was glad.

He instructed Anderson to shut the door behind them, forcing the bile in his throat down at the sight of them. They turned to him, their faces a bit confused, a bit neutral – they didn’t know.

Well, he was going to make sure they knew. He was going to make bloody _certain_ of it.

“What’s wrong, sir?” Sally asked. “Have you not found the freak yet?”

It was that word that did it. _Freak_. Lestrade had reached his boiling point.

He slammed his hand down on the desk, which made an extremely satisfying loud sound. They both jumped. “No,” he hissed, glaring at them. “I found the _freak_.”

“…Then what’s this about, sir?” Sally asked hesitantly. He was nearly ready to rip that smug voice out. How could she possibly speak that way? The world had stopped spinning – why had she not stopped with it?

Lestrade chuckled. It was definitely not a happy laugh; there was no mirth to be found in it. The two dimwits in front of him shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you know _where_ I found him, Sally? Keith?” He didn’t wait for them to shake their heads. “I found him in the _bloody morgue!_ ”

A still silence fell. Lestrade didn’t think it had registered to them yet.

“Excuse me, sir?” Anderson asked. His voice was hoarse. “Do you mean he was with Miss Hooper?”

“Oh, _no_ , Anderson,” Lestrade said. “No, no, no. Molly only recently acquired him, you see.” Their faces were still blank. Those disgusting bastards.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes is _dead_.”

And for once, in his long career at the Yard, it was completely silent.

“Oh, you weren’t expecting that, were you?” Lestrade said. “Yes. Sherlock Holmes woke up this morning and decided to take a tumble off the roof of St. Bart’s hospital. Now, why do you think he would do that?” His voice had turned acidic – it dripped and hissed and boiled.

Sally opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She tried again, but her voice was very small. “I – I don’t know, sir.”

“Oh, no?” he said. “Can you think of any incident in the past twenty-four hours that might have triggered this?”

“N-no – “ Anderson stuttered.

“ _Really?”_ he all but shouted. “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty certain that a couple of idiots marched into the Chief Superintendent’s office last night and claimed that Sherlock had been the kidnapper _and_ that he may have been a fraud as well!” He knew that he had let them coerce him into it as well, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He was furious, and there were two people here to take it out on. That was good enough for him. Right now, he needed to raise his voice at someone, or he may just turn in on himself.

“S-sir!” Anderson protested. “We didn’t know that – “

“Oh, you didn’t?!” Lestrade shouted. “You didn’t think that making such serious claims would have any effect on him at all? You didn’t think that perhaps you shouldn’t upset someone who claimed he was a sociopath? _You didn’t think that ruining his career would ruin his life?”_

Sally looked like she was getting choked up. Good. “I swear sir,” she whispered hoarsely, “we had no idea that – “

“ _I don’t want to hear it!”_ he roared. Sally began blinking back tears. “You two are unbelievable! You two can’t stand that someone is truly brilliant, and so you try to rip him to shreds at every chance you get! You were one of the things that drove him to do this!” Lestrade was tearing up now as well. _Damn it._ “You helped kill a great man. A _great_ man. The greatest man I know is dead, all because you decided that he was too good at what he did and ruined him. You _ruined him._ ” He glared at both of them, and they shrunk back. He could see a small crowd forming outside his door through the clear glass walls.

Sally was crying, and Keith had his arm around her. Lestrade felt no sympathy for them at all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had a vague notion that he would regret saying all of this to them so harshly later. That didn’t stop him though.

“John Watson saw the whole thing, too,” he choked out. Sally let out a small, strangled cry. He knew that she had liked John a little, although she’d never admit it. “Sherlock jumped right in front of him. Said good-bye to him on the phone and then…jumped…” God, he was going to cry again. He wouldn’t let himself. If Keith Anderson hadn’t cried yet, then neither would Greg Lestrade.

“You disgusting fools threw away the professionalism and intellect that I believed you to be in possession of to tear down a man who had done no harm to anyone, ever. You acted like children, and in doing so, you killed him. You bloody helped _kill him_.”

He let out a deep breath that spat between his teeth. “I…I don’t even know what to say to you two. You unbelievably selfish bastards.” He looked at them for a moment. They were pathetic.

So was he, but at least he had the authority to make the others feel bad about it.

“Go on,” he said. “Get out of my sight. One of you, tell the Chief that I’m going home for the day. And stay away from me for a while.”

He strode past them to his office door. “In fact,” he said, turning, “stay away from the Yard from a while as well. You two are on leave until I say otherwise. You are dismissed.” He ignored Sally’s broken sobs as he left.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Lestrade got home, he was exhausted. It wasn’t just the kind of exhaustion that made him want to curl up and sleep; it was bone-deep, and it made him ache. He hurt all over, and his eyes were rubbed raw, and he just wanted to stop thinking.

Sherlock was dead.

Sherlock was dead, and he hadn’t gotten to apologize. Or make things right between them. Or tell him that he had always kind of thought of him as a son, in an odd way.

Sherlock was dead, and nothing would ever bring him back.

Sherlock was dead, and it was Lestrade’s fault.

Of course, others had had a hand in it. Donovan. Anderson. The Chief. That nasty reporter, Kitty Riley. But Lestrade had been a part of it. He could have taken measures to defend Sherlock, to sort everything out. He could have professed his faith in Sherlock and his abilities. He could have done a lot of things that he didn’t do, and what was worse, he actively did things to speed up the process. He had entertained Sally’s and Keith’s proposition. He had gone to the Chief for a warrant. He had arrested him.

And now Sherlock was dead, and he could do nothing about it.

Maybe he even died thinking that no one cared about him at all.

With that thought, Lestrade’s breath hitched and he sank onto his sofa. The same sofa where Sherlock had said _thank you_.

_Thank you for what, Sherlock?_

He had played a role in Sherlock’s suicide. He had driven him to think that the world would be better without him. He had not defended him, nor had he fought for him. He had not apologized. His actions were despicable, and there was no one to forgive him. No one would clear his conscience or take the blame off his shoulders. He was alone in this, and he was completely to blame.

_Turns out I didn’t do much for the kid after all. What does it matter that you help start a man’s life if you help end it as well?_

Not much, he was sure.

Sherlock had died thinking that no one in the world had thought that he was a good man. _But I did, Sherlock. I thought you were incredible._

Lestrade knew that he hadn’t been a fake.

Lestrade knew that he had been treated unjustly.

And what had he done?

Absolutely nothing.

A sob tickled the back of his throat. It was going to be a long night.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
It turned out to be a long few days, rather than just a long night.

Then those days turned to weeks.

Those weeks turned to months.

And it didn’t get any easier for Lestrade.

The weight of Sherlock’s suicide didn’t leave him. Nothing really helped. He still blamed himself. He was pretty sure he always would.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever even be able to begin to forgive himself. He really didn’t. It certainly didn’t help when that small, young voice played constantly in the back of his mind.

_Thank you._

For what, Sherlock?

He knew the answer.

For nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I decided to continue this with one more chapter. Everyone tell me what you think, please!

It had been nearly three years to the day when it happened.

It was bitterly cold out. The wind was biting and sharp, blowing up coats and blustering through doorways. There had been a dull gray fog hanging low in the London sky for weeks. Given the miserable weather, Lestrade wanted nothing more than to burrow down in his bed and forget about everything he had to do. Unfortunately, such dreams are nearly impossible to achieve in this harsh world, which is why Lestrade found himself slouching bleary-eyed at his desk and three-thirty in the morning on a particularly nasty February day.

Just hours before, they had caught a killer who had been giving them trouble for over eighteen months, and DI Lestrade had been given the honor of filling out the appropriate paperwork. It couldn’t have waited until morning – they needed it done, and they needed it done yesterday, and so it seemed that a nice warm cup of tea and a good twelve-hour sleep were not in Lestrade’s immediate future.

_Bleeding idiots, the lot of them,_ he thought with a grumble. _Can’t even decently catch one criminal, and then when they do, they shove all the real work on me._ Of course, he was not exempt from this band of incompetent blunderers, but he really wasn’t in the mood to acknowledge that. As their superior, he had the right to insult them as much as he liked. At least they got sleep. His best substitute for that was coffee, and it was a bloody awful one. Grimacing, he downed the last dregs of his hour-old roast, pulling a face at the cold slosh. He sighed, bringing his hand up and rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t slept in what felt like years, and it had begun to take its toll.

It was at times like these – with terribly clever criminals, too much paperwork, and too little sleep – that he missed _him_ the most. That he missed Sherlock the most. He would’ve cut Lestrade’s work in half, if not even more, and been cheekily annoying while doing so. With but a quick swish of that bloody coat that made him look like some stupid vampire, he would have solved the case, mouthed off to Anderson, and skipped away to play with some poor dead fellow’s liver or something. Lestrade missed the speed by which everything used to be sorted, and he missed that idiot’s snide remarks and ugly insults. He missed John Watson, whom he hadn’t spoken to in months. He missed having that brilliant man working with him – he missed having his boy to keep an eye on. He could always rely on the kid – on _his_ kid, really. He could call him that. Had always considered him that (not that he’d have ever admitted it to Sherlock when he was still alive). He’d practically raised Sherlock into what he is – _was._ He had helped him find detective work, the one thing he had flourished in. He’d sort of managed to _almost_ train him to behave semi-acceptably in public at times. He’d taken the kid in before he had made enough money to live on his own. So, yeah, Lestrade missed working with Sherlock.

But he missed just _seeing_ him even more.

With his head still in his hands, Lestrade groaned. He only let himself think about Sherlock when he was alone and it was late and he was too tired to fight it. He tried distracting himself with his job and with other people, and he managed, mostly. But at night, when he had no one to keep him company, his mind turned to the deceased detective. Being lonely did that to you, he supposed. It made you think of the people you’ve lost, of all you’ve lost, and all you could have done to keep it with you.

_Thank you,_ Sherlock had said.

Most nights, it was all Lestrade could do to keep from sobbing back, _No, Sherlock. No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

Sherlock should have put his thanks elsewhere, Lestrade knew. And he probably had. He had thanked Lestrade years ago – he had most likely retracted that trust and that thanks from Lestrade and hidden it away again. Or maybe he had given it to John.

Oh well. It didn’t matter now. He was dead, and nothing could change that now.

Maybe Lestrade could’ve changed it _then_. But not now.

Shaking his head and sniffing, Lestrade lifted his head again. He had a lot of work to do, and sitting here mooning about the past wasn’t going to get anything done.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Lestrade reached his hands above his head and stretched, wincing as his back cracked and popped. It was now five in the morning, and he had just finished his paperwork. He slumped, sighing. The rest of his team wouldn’t be to the station until six, or maybe six-thirty. The lazy ones wouldn’t wander in until seven. He supposed he could pop over to the coffee shop down the road – he had a long day ahead of him with very little rest to power himself through it. He could use all the caffeinated help he could get.

He readied himself to get out of his chair (which, after sitting in it for so long, would take much effort – he did _not_ want to think of how old his bones were getting) – and paused.

There was someone in the station.

He knew, rationally, that the sound of the door down the hall opening could have been anyone – an early arrival, a janitor, one of his superiors who needed a file – but after being in an empty, half dark office by himself since two-thirty, he had become jittery. The god-awful fluorescents that provided light in his glass cubicle were the only lights on his floor of the building at the moment, and, as a result, everything had taken on a creepy pallor, the shadows stretching out farther than usual and the slight green of the walls slightly luminescent. He felt ridiculous being wary of there being someone he couldn’t see in the dark somewhere, but bloody hell, he had been chasing a murderer earlier that evening and was therefore completely justified in being shaken.

At least, that was his excuse for his tentative call of, “Hello? Anyone there?”

He sounded pathetic, but as Detective Inspector, he could play off pathetic as tired, or cautious, if need be. One of the perks of the job.

“Hello?” he called again. “It’s just me here at the moment. D’you need any help finding anything?”

There was no reply, but he heard a swish of fabric and a few footsteps.

“Damn it, just let me know who’s down here so I don’t have to call security,” he called.

A few more footsteps sounded, and a figure stepped into the glow of his office lighting.

“I can assure you, Detective Inspector, that that will not be necessary.”

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Well, Lestrade panicked.

Of course he did.

When your deceased friend and colleague comes to you in your office and five in the bloody morning, what the hell else are you _supposed_ to do but panic?

Granted, the poor little Sherlock ghost-zombie probably didn’t deserve to have a stapler thrown at its head, but when you panic, you panic, and sometimes blunt, heavy objects end up getting thrown at apparitions.

Actually, if the Sherlock ghost-zombie was anything like the live Sherlock, it had probably said so many nasty things in the past hour alone that pelting office supplies at it was probably well-justified.

The Sherlock-thing ducked out of the way and stood back up, straight as an arrow, ignoring Lestrade’s curses and shouts and general panicking.

Which, in retrospect, was actually quite generous of him, really.

Lestrade gripped the back of his chair, which he had leapt behind with a start almost as soon as he’s seen the figure emerge from the shadows. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, which was a very difficult thing to do, as he was being faced with a man who had been declared dead three years ago. There was just no easy way to explain what he was seeing.

Once Lestrade’s curses had died down, Sherlock’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Hello, Lestrade.”

_His voice_. It was as deep as Lestrade had remembered it, and it seemed to solidify the man standing in front of him. Somehow, he doubted the ability of a ghost’s voice to reverberate through his mind like that, or to bring up so many memories. Hundreds of them, all coming together to create a deep nostalgia, rose within him, simply at hearing Sherlock utter those two words.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he managed.

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m assuming you _are_ Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “I haven’t been drinking tonight, I don’t put much belief in ghosts, and it seems rather late in the game for me to start hallucinating _now._ Unless,” he said, frowning, “unless this is a dream. That seems rather believable, actually.”

Sherlock smiled a small smile again, and this time it seemed a little sad. “An excellent deduction, Lestrade,” he said.

“Ah,” Lestrade said. Well, that explained it then. A dream. A great part of him was very relieved, but another great part of him was also rather sad. The thought of Sherlock being alive…Well, it had been a nice idea while it had lasted. “I’m glad then, becau – ”

“An excellent deduction,” Sherlock interrupted, “but a wrong one, I’m afraid. It was a nice try, though.”

The silence that followed was oppressive. It was ringing. It was deafening.

“So that’s it then,” Lestrade finally said.

Sherlock frowned. “That’s _what,_ then?”

Lestrade gave a small chuckle. There was no mirth in it. “I’ve finally gone round the bend. Oh, _god_.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I thought it was possible at the beginning – I mean, I just kept thinking, and just laying into myself, and my wife said it was unhealthy, but I couldn’t stop, and I thought, _maybe, yeah, I’ll crack_ , but I didn’t, and I thought I’d gotten so much better – ”

“Lestrade –” Sherlock tried, but the Detective Inspector just plowed on.

“And I had Sherlock, I’d finally stopped blaming myself – well, for the most part – and I had started doing well in work again and I had stopped thinking about you all the time, so why now? Why on earth did I break now? I mean,” here he looked up at Sherlock, who was observing him in a stony silence, “ _hallucinating?_ Have I really gone so far?” His eyes widened. “Oh. Oh god. If you’re not here, then am I just talking to thin air? _Damn it!_ ”

The not-really-there Sherlock frowned. “Is that really the best explanation you can come up with? You said it yourself, Detective Inspector – it’s rather late after my death for you to begin hallucinating now.”

“Well, I don’t know how these things work, do I? For God’s sake, Sherlock, and I can’t be an expert in everything like you – ” And he stopped himself. Because he had been going to say _like you are._ Not _were_ – _are._ Like Sherlock could actually be alive.

He suddenly felt very, very tired. He sank back into his desk chair and ran a hand down his face. He could feel the uneven stubble and newly-formed lines on his face that signaled his exhaustion. “Look, I’m tired, so…be gone, Sherlock, or however this works.” It had better work. He didn’t know if he could deal with some piss-poor rendition of the detective walking around in his head ranting about how stupid his police force was.

“I’m not leaving, Lestrade.”

_Oh, for the –_ “Why the hell not? It’s my head – get out!”

“I’m not in your head.” Sherlock leaned forward over Lestrade’s desk. “I swear to you, Lestrade – I am really here. _I am alive._ ”

There was another silence, but this one was different. It rang with Sherlock’s words; it magnified their significance, it sang them in the quiet. Lestrade wasn’t quite sure what to do with this new information, but it felt uncomfortable. Because it couldn’t be true, no matter how much the words echoed truth. It just meant that his subconscious was trying to convince him he wasn’t insane…he assumed.

“No,” he finally said.

Sherlock started away from the desk. “Excuse me?”

“No, I don’t believe you,” Lestrade said. It sounded a bit too much like a pout, but he was going to ignore that.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “And why not? Any evidence would point towards –”

“Because I can’t afford to, Sherlock!” Lestrade exploded. “Because I just _can’t_. I have hoped and prayed for so long – and I have _destroyed_ myself for so many years, Sherlock – for _so long_ – and I just _can’t_. Say I believe you – you’re alive, hurrah, how wonderful – and then it turns out you’re not. Do you know what that would do to me, Sherlock? Do you understand? You would die all over again, and I would have to go through all of that again. I don’t know if I would survive it a second time. Best to just keep a cap on my insanity now and not let it convince me that I’m anything but…well, what I am, I suppose.” He had to stop. He was getting choked up, and it wasn’t terribly comfortable. He didn’t look at Sherlock. He couldn’t.

It was quiet again. _Too many silences for one night,_ Lestrade thought. _Isn’t insanity supposed to be louder than this?_

He didn’t know. These silences were rather loud and chaotic in their stillness.

He risked looking up. Maybe the silence meant he was gone.

No. No, he wasn’t. His mouth was set in a straight line and his eyes were blazing. He leaned forward as soon as he caught Lestrade’s eye, slamming his hands down onto the desk that separated them. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Lestrade. _Let me prove to you I exist._ ”

Lestrade looked back at him, gaping like some unseemly fish. “Um. Okay?” What? No. That wasn’t what he meant to say. But…what could he do, anyway?

Sherlock looked jubilant. He straightened sharply and swept quickly out of Lestrade’s office, leaving the Detective Inspector to gaze after him, his jaw still refusing to close all the way. _God._ It had been a bad day.

Sherlock returned almost immediately, dragging someone with him. _What the hell…?_ As the two got closer to the light of his office, he could see that it was –

“Jimmy?” he said, perplexed. Jimmy was the janitor for Lestrade’s floor.

“Mornin’, Detective Inspector!” Jimmy said cheerfully, grinning with a mouth that boasted far too few teeth. “How are ya, sir?”

“I – I’m fine, Jimmy…I’m sorry, did you need anything?”

Jimmy shook his head. “This fella here you was working with said you two was having an argument and needed me to settle somefin’. Now, go on.”

Lestrade was still gaping. “I’m sorry…Go on with wha –”

“Yes, lovely!” Sherlock declared with an entirely too-wide grin on his face. “Look, Lestrade, I told you I’m taller than you. Stand at the wall with me so that this fine man here can tell you I’m right.”

Lestrade didn’t argue, and didn’t pay one lick of attention to anything after that – it all became a blur, really.

Jimmy could see Sherlock.

Jimmy could tell that Sherlock was taller than Lestrade.

_Sherlock was alive._

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The whole thing later that day was Sherlock’s plan.

He and Lestrade had stayed in the office, talking, until it was time for the first person to arrive that morning. Sherlock didn’t say one rude thing. Lestrade may have even cried a bit.

He was alive. He was alive, and Lestrade wasn’t crazy, and it felt so unbelievably good.

_Did John know?_

Yes, John knew. He had punched the daylights out of Sherlock. The detective could feel a bruise coming on.

_How long had he been back?_

Oh, just today. He had gone to John that morning.

_Had Mycroft known that he was alive?_

Of course. Really, Lestrade, he’s the entirety of the British government. You expected him to not know?

_…What the hell happened?_

So Sherlock told him what happened on the rooftop that day. He told Lestrade everything Moriarty did to get him there. He told him the threat Moriarty had made to get him to jump.

When Sherlock said that Lestrade was one of the three, he hugged Sherlock. In a very manly way. The normal way a man would hug his other male friend when he found out that said friend sacrificed himself for his life.

He felt solid and real. He was definitely alive.

And then Sherlock began scheming. He had been waiting, he had said with a gleam in his eye, for this moment for a very long time.

There were a few more people who needed to know that Sherlock was alive.

All too soon, seven-thirty a.m. hit. Officers began filing in, and Sherlock had to disappear before they got in.

Before he stepped into the closet right outside Lestrade’s office, he stopped and looked back.

_Thank you_ , he said.

_Thank you._

Damn it, Lestrade was going to cry again.

But he didn’t. He held it in like the professional, grown man that he told himself he was. He walked over to his desk and sat down, shuffling papers and trying to look decidedly non-teary.  It worked, for a while, and he began to read a report that had been put onto his desk the day before. He was only fifteen minutes into it when there was a knock at his door frame.

Sally.

“So,” she said with a smile, walking in. “How was all that paperwork last night?”

He drew a blank. _Paperwork?_

Oh. The stuff he was doing before his world was shattered. Right. He forced a grin.

“Oh, you know, it was hell. As usual.” He glared at her mockingly. Well, sort of mockingly. Halfway mocking, halfway real. “And whose idea was it to leave me here all alone to struggle with that?”

Sally didn’t pick up on the only half-mocking. She thought he was jesting in full. Pity for her. Now he felt slightly less bad about what he was about to do (he really wasn’t feeling any guilt anyway, but her easy attitude towards his suffering was making it even easier). “Oh, come on, Lestrade,” she said. “It builds character.”

“Hm,” he said. “Mmm. Yes. Go get Keith. I want to talk to both of you.” Because unfortunately both of them were still working with him. He hadn’t been allowed to fire them those three years ago. _Pity._

Sally looked at him curiously but did as she was told. Good.  

She returned only a moment later, Keith Anderson in tow. Lestrade stretched and stood up. It was show time.

“I wanted to talk to you two about a rather serious matter that I’m sure you both remember quite well.”

“Sir?”

“Sherlock’s death, Sergeant Donovan.”

She seemed to shrink in size as soon as he said that. “Oh.”

He knew Sally hadn’t taken the death lightly. She still hated Sherlock with a fierce passion, but she did feel some guilt over her supposed role in his death. At least, Lestrade thought she did. He knew that she also just didn’t like being in the wrong.

“Yes,” he continued. “Now, I don’t know if you knew this, but I was angry enough at you all to see about sacking the two of you. Unfortunately, I was not permitted to by my superiors.” _Unless I sacked myself as well._

“Um, sir, we are so –” Anderson began.

“Save it!” Lestrade said. Good lord, Anderson’s voice was even more nasally when he was nervous. “Now, I’ve been thinking about a good way to ensure that you don’t accuse anyone of a serious crime just because you didn’t get along with him again, and I never thought of anything. But I don’t trust you two to use good judgment on cases any longer, and I need a good…let’s call it learning tool.”

“Sir,” Anderson said. “We are so, so sorry for what we did. It was an accident, and –”

“Lives are not accidents, Anderson!” Lestrade snapped. He tried to compose himself. _It’s not worth it. It’s not._ “Anyway,” he continued, “the solution came to me last night, and I think it will be very educational for you both.”

The two standing in front of him just looked at each other. “Sir –”

“Hello, Donovan. Anderson.”

Sherlock’s deep voice reverberated through the small room. He had come up behind them, slipping out of the closet and into Lestrade’s office with a practiced ease and silence. Lestrade doubted that any of the officers outside his office even saw Sherlock come in.

Sally spun around, giving a slight scream that she quickly covered up with a shaking hand when she saw Sherlock. Anderson was slower on the uptake, but screamed just as Sally had (Sherlock would later argue with Lestrade that it had even been higher-pitched than Sally’s, an assertion to which Lestrade would just snort).

Their faces were priceless, and Lestrade, conveniently forgetting that just hours before he had been accusing Sherlock of being a hallucination and throwing office supplies at his head, couldn’t contain the laugh that escaped him then.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said, grinning. “Come on in.”

Sherlock moved forward into the office. Donovan let out a sound like a mouse and quickly shuffled out of his way. Anderson staggered more like a drunk. Sherlock, once he reached Lestrade’s desk, turned to face them. He had a small smile on his face. It wasn’t a nice smile; it was a bit too smug for Sally or Keith to be comfortable with.

“Miss me?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Sally’s answer was a broken sob. Lestrade was fairly certain that Anderson had been struck dumb.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said brusquely. “I’m not dead – never was, if you’re both still too stupid to figure that out. And no, don’t ask any dull questions on how or why I did it – I already got enough of those from Lestrade.”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh, did I say dull? I meant incredibly probing and insightful.”

“Sherlock…”

“Wait,” Sally cut in. “Did you,” she said, pointing at Lestrade with a still-shaking hand, “know about him being alive this whole time?”

He glanced at Sherlock, whose smile was still intact. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I did.”

“But,” Anderson spluttered, “but it _can’t_ be. It just can’t. People saw him jump, he was declared _dead_ –”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, Anderson?” Sherlock said. “I’m not really a fake genius. I’m still cleverer than all of Scotland Yard combined. Both you and Sergeant Donovan got that wrong, I’m afraid. I’m sure I could fool as many of you as I wanted to.”

Lestrade snorted.

“Alright, you two,” he said. “You can leave now. This was just meant to be a quick lesson on not accusing people wrongly of crimes – think before you act! Alright, good chat. Please clean yourselves up in the washroom or something – you both look awful. And don’t go blabbing this to everyone. Sherlock and I still have to have our fun with the rest of the team.”

“But – but –” Sally stuttered. There were tear tracks on her face. She really did look like a mess. “You can’t just drop this on us, sir! I don’t even know what to think, let alone _do_ –”

“Well, too bad,” said Lestrade. “We ‘just dropped’ something rather heavy on Sherlock three years ago, giving him very little time to prepare for it as well. I think that being in a similar situation might benefit you both.”

“ _Sir,_ ” Anderson hissed. “Can we be sure that he – well, that it’s really – I mean, I know it sounds…unprofessional, but – I mean –”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. God, it really did sound ridiculous coming from someone else’s mouth. “Can we be sure that it’s really him, Anderson? Can we be sure that it isn’t a _ghost_ or a _hallucination_? Is that what you mean?” He chuckled mirthlessly at Anderson’s hesitant nod. “Good lord, get out of my office before I start questioning why I actually pay you, Keith.”

Anderson nodded and quickly scuttled out of the room. After a moment, Sally followed, her legs shaking as they struggled to support her weight. Sherlock watched them leave with a smirk on his face.

“Well,” Lestrade said after a moment, “that was fun.”

“Hm,” Sherlock replied. “Yes. Yes, I suppose.” He took his phone out and began to fiddle with it. Lestrade resisted the urge to shake his head. Sherlock, moving on as quickly as ever.

“Look, I’m sure you’ve got to go, get back to John and all that,” Lestrade said, “but I’d really like it if you stopped by again. We could still use you on these cases, Sherlock. It’s miserable how long they take to get done without you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, looking up at Lestrade. Lestrade couldn't read his face. “I think I will. I could certainly use the distraction. John has become almost unbearably dull – he needs to get back to all of this as well.”

Lestrade grinned. “Well, go on. Go off gallivanting around London again. I’m sure you’ll be back soon.”

Sherlock nodded and moved to the door. Lestrade had to stop him before he left, saying, “Oh, and Sherlock…it’s really good to see you again.”

Sherlock smiled, and this time, it was soft. “Thank you, Lestrade.”

_Thank you._

Lestrade nodded at him with a small smile of his own, his throat tight. “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”


End file.
